Chapter 39
by jmsutherland
Summary: Lucy and the Wee Free Men arrive at Bothermoe Hall.


Page **19** of **19**

**Chapter XXXIX**

The guards had thrown her roughly into a cell and the last thing she'd seen before the door shut was Frau Strohdachdeckerin's horrible, triumphant grin. She hadn't even known that the hall had dungeons, though she supposed she should have, as most of the people who had halls also had a lot of enemies; so a few cells and a torture chamber were now considered de rigueur in the modern castle. Her prison contained a tiny window, –which let in a correspondingly tiny amount of light- a small wooden bed with a thin, lumpy mattress, a metal bucket and…well, that was it. She'd felt utterly miserable because she'd realised that, bad though things were, they were only going to get worse.

A few hours later, she hadn't known how long, but long after dawn, two guards had turned up with some clothes. They'd stood in the room, leering and laughing while they'd made her change into them and told her to expect visitors. She'd curled-up in the corner of her bed, trembling with fear at the thought of who these _visitors_ might be.

Later, again, she didn't know how much later, the first of her visitors had arrived.

Lord Bothermore had blustered, as was his normal was way, but he had also howled, snarled, cursed, threatened and finally spat on her. She hadn't been surprised that, as he left the cell, he'd announced that she was sacked. Unpleasant though that had been the second visit had been much nastier.

Lord Bothermore had been content to let her cower in her corner but that hadn't been enough for Goodman Sax. He'd made her strip and stand in the middle of the cell with her hands on her head while the guards ogled her shivering body –though it wasn't cold- and Mr. Sax paced around her demanding to know: what she'd heard, who she knew and what she'd told them. Throughout both visits she'd done nothing but cry. She hadn't been trying to elicit any sympathy; she'd realised immediately that there was no possibility of that. She'd wept because she couldn't help herself but she also knew that while all she did was snivel and sob then they couldn't get a coherent word out of her and therefore she couldn't implicate: Sacharissa, Rose, Bob Jim…or anyone else. It didn't make her feel noble but it made her feel slightly better. But then, as Mr. Sax was leaving he'd said that he'd be back to question her again, "less gently". The obscene gestures of the guards had made it clear that this meant torture.

She'd thrown herself on the bed and, wretchedly, almost cried herself to sleep. Yet, when the key had turned again in the lock, she'd been immediately upright, and still absolutely terrified. This time it had only been the creepiest and slimiest of the guards bringing her some food.

"Stale bread and rancid water for you, missy," he'd laughed, setting the tray down on her –so far unused- toilet pail.

It had been obvious to her immediately that among Creepy's, no doubt innumerable, faults was that he had no sense of smell. You can't hide the smell of fresh bread, or garlic butter, but you can give them to someone who doesn't like them. The water had not only been fresh and fizzy but had been flavoured with a little elderflower cordial. It is wise to be nice to servants. She'd felt so happy that her friends had not forgotten her that she'd been able to relax enough to be able to sleep for a little while. And then the key turned again.

If she'd been to be forced to guess what the most unlikely thing a guard might bring into her cell and dump in her lap was, then a barely conscious little girl would have been about 859th. Yet that was, undeniably, was what she was. Katy had thought she herself was weak and vulnerable, but compared to this little, ginger thing she was no more helpless than was Sergeant Kubwa of the Watch.1

Katy was quite thin and when she was young she'd been little more than skin and bone, but on this tiny scrap of humanity even the bones were thin and the skin was like paper. As she'd cuddled her and stroked her face and hair she sang softly to her –trying to comfort her- the child had seemed to respond and even tried to talk but couldn't quite manage as she'd clearly been drugged. As the time had worn on the little girl had started to get closer to being able to say something; no doubt as the drugs began to wear off. Katy hadn't been able to quite get it but there had definitely been a 't' and an 'a'; later it had been 'tif' and 'ag' but it still didn't mean anything to Katy so she tried another tack.

"What's your name, darling?"

"Moo" was all the child had been able to say. Katy had hoped that she'd soon find out her actual name as the little bud seemed to be getting closer to full consciousness all the time. But for that moment "Moo" would have to do. And then the door had opened again.

This time the guards were accompanied by an apothecary who injected 'Moo' with more drugs. Katy had tried to stop them but, as any of the guards could have picked her up by the ankle and dangled her in the air she didn't have much success. After the injection the apothecary put a beaker of milk by the bed and said simply: feed it. Then they all left.

Katy tried, with some little success to get Moo to drink a bit of milk and it was while she was doing this that she began to wonder how anyone could refer to a little girl as 'it' and then she remembered where she'd heard someone do it before. Could this possibly be the 'it' that Lord Marbury had talked about? She wished and wished to all afar that it wasn't the case, though really she knew it was.

So here they now were, she and Moo, two weak, helpless, little girls at the mercy of a lot of large, strong, nasty men. Katy decided that it was time for her to toughen up: vulnerable though she was, she wasn't as helpless as Moo. Then she heard the raucous laughter on the other side of the cell door. No, she was almost as helpless as Moo and far more frightened. The guards could laugh, she thought because they had no fear of danger.

She was right in this, of course, but that was because neither she nor they knew how mortal the danger they faced was, how close it was or how imminent its arrival. And they couldn't possibly have begun to imagine how ranting, raving, wrathful, seething and boiling its rage was. Because if they had they would all have already been on their way to Fourecks.

Lucy had arrived just before dawn and for several hours had scouted the hall to get a feel for the strength of its defences. She was now perched in one of the trees by the main entrance wearing only a shirt she'd managed to steal from one of the washing lines and trying to decide what her best move was. There was a rage on its way and she hoped to get Moo out before it arrived. It meant her no harm, quite the opposite, but its sheer frenzy was likely to tear the whole hall to pieces and she might be hurt in the wreckage. The problem was that the outside, and no doubt the inside, were being patrolled by Lord Bothermore's elite protection detail, the Black Guards. They were big men, all of them, and they looked strong and fit and as if they could probably fight; though not like Lucy. Ten or twelve of them wouldn't have been a problem she thought, but there were forty-two of them on the outside alone and probably at least as many inside as well. If she was going to reach Moo it was going to have to be surreptitiously and for that she would probably have to wait for nightfall. Unfortunately, by that time the Wee Free Men would have arrived.

She'd been aware of the Nac Mac Feegle, of course, but she hadn't really been aware of how much anger could be generated by something so small; nor that all these apparently separate little things were really just part of a much larger, almost terrifying thing. She hadn't believed that she was even capable of physical fear, but she'd now changed her mind. She'd been inhaling the infumes inflaming off what, as she flew over them in her bat state, she saw as a stream of raving lava and they were intoxicating. Her first encounter with the Wee Free Men had only been the previous day yet she'd estimated that she could probably take three of them, possibly four2, but that five of them would tear her apart. There were a couple of thousand of them on the way here and, as far as she could see, she was just going to have to wait for them.

Early in the afternoon she caught sight of her first blue flash in the long grass to her left. It was far too fast and fleeting for any of the guards to have noticed and was only her vampy sense that allowed her to. Then there was another in the trees to her right, then one on the roof…and then one on the branch beside her.

"Hullaw, wee lassie, I'm Bad Wullie."3

"Hello, Wullie," she said, managing to hide the fact that she'd been startled, "have you been here long?"

"Jist arrived, hen, whit ur you daein?"

"I was waiting for you, so I'll ask you the same question."

"We're jist waitin fur Malky4 and then we're gaunnae git right intae the bams." The Nac Mac Feegle always favoured the direct approach.

"What about Moo?"

"We've been telt tae leave the bairn tae you," said Wullie.

"Very gracious of you," she thanked him, "how far away is Malky now?"

"No far," he answered.

"And how long will it take him to get here?" she asked.

"No long."

Time and distance, she thought, were clearly abstract concepts for which the Wee Free Men had little use. And then Wullie was gone.

A little over an hour later, as she was watching, there was suddenly a less than normally wee blue thing swaggering up the path towards the main door; she assumed this must be Malky as the waves she felt coming off him spoke very clearly of two things: authority and danger. It was obvious though that the four guards on the door had never encountered a Nac Mac Feegle before. It was also clear that they lacked senses, or sense for that matter, because when Malky told them to "git oot of ma way", they laughed at him. He didn't so much make them laugh on the other sides of their faces as try to push their mouths through the backs of their heads. Only a fraction of the pictsie hoard had arrived but they clearly judged it to be enough as they now followed his lead and when the little blue avalanche hit the hall the stones shook. They came in through the doors and windows; down the chimneys and up through the drains: kicking and punching as they came, and blow betide anyone who got in their way. Not that many people tried to. Lucy had been surprised how discriminating the wee blue men were, even in their rage: the servants were left entirely untouched; the guests were rounded up in the grand ballroom and snarled at, but otherwise left unmolested. It was only the guards that got battered.

A few of them had deserted, managed to grab horses and head for the hollows; a few others had banded together and tried to make a stand –entirely unsuccessfully- but the majority of the elite Black Guards just flailed about while a smaller number of pictsies punched lumps out of them. Lucy, as a non-combatant, independent observer representing the Ankh-Morpork City Watch, had been finding the whole thing hilarious. Until she remembered her mission, gave her self a slap5 and headed for the first stairway she saw leading down. It was the obvious –possibly even to something as thick as a Black Guard- that the place to look for someone being held prisoner was in the dungeons, after all.

Back when Lucy had been a great lady she'd had to find ways to while away the long days until she could seize the night. She'd dutifully learned dances and foreign languages, played the piano for her father and embroidered scenes of torture on dried human skin, but she'd been easily bored back then and needed something more challenging to stimulate her mind. And that was when she'd found a hobby that really appealed to her artistic nature: dungeon design.

The results had made her father "very proud" and would have rivalled the best work of the dungeon masters Chambers and Tussauds, had she ever resorted to anything as sordid as trade. To her expert eye these were little more than cellars with a few unconvincing props: the wall-chains were loose, the thumbscrews were rusty, even the rack had woodworm… the cells were hardly dank, for gods' sakes! Fortunately the guards were the standard fat, ugly, leering half-wits drooling at the thought of what they were going to do to the helpless, skinny, little girl who had clearly got lost and wandered into their realm. Someone was going to have to pay for this offence against her aesthetic sense; luckily it was going to be them.

Katy became only gradually aware that there was something serious happening as her window, in addition to not letting in much light, didn't let in much sound. There was nothing going on outside her door but there was clearly a lot going on outside her window. At first it had just been humans shouting and anxious horses neighing; then there had been the sound of a lot of things breaking: just glass and wood to begin with, but then, by the sound of the –all male- screams she thought a few bones might also be involved. Eventually the commotion moved indoors too and she could hear shouts and things being smashed in the corridor beyond her cell. Now, she was really frightened and held Moo even closer, putting her body between the barely-conscious child and the door.

Suddenly a dirty, little, blue man jumped through the window and landed on the bed in front of her.

"Hullaw, hen," he said, in a very loud voice, as the racket beyond the door was getting even louder, "I'm Manky Tam. Cover the bairn's face!"

She didn't question but immediately did as she was told, not only covering Moo's face but her whole body with her own. Just in time, as there was the most tremendous crash behind her and splinters of wood rained down on her back. And then it went quiet.

After a few seconds Katy dared to look round. There was a young girl standing in the doorway. She was barefoot and wearing nothing but a man's shirt which was –even with the sleeves rolled up twelve times and the tails tied between her legs- at least eighteen sizes too big for her. She was also, obviously, a vampire: the black polish on her toenails and the black varnish on lips were a dead giveaway. Oh, and the fact that she was holding half of the cell door in each hand.

"Hello," she said, "Acting Constable Solferino, Ankh-Morpork Watch. How's Moo?"

"I'm Katy," said Katy –is Moo really called Moo? she wondered- "and I don't think she's very well; she's been drugged."

"Right lads!" said Lucy.

Suddenly the cell was swarming with little blue men and their bed was on the move. With astonishing speed it went: through the door, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs, along another corridor, up another flight of stairs, across a hallway, and into the Small Ballroom.

Around the room were various injured men -mostly guards, but including some guests- being tended by, exclusively, women. The bed came to an abrupt halt beside lord Bothermore's nurse.6 Like most of the other servants, Katy included, Vera was in it solely for the money; she had no regard, nor liking, for Lord Bothermore himself. However, Katy could see, when she looked at Moo it was with far more than mere professional concern. She herself wanted to stay by Moo's bedside but Lucy had other ideas.

"Come with me," she said, "I need you to pick people out of a lineup."

In the Grand Ballroom she managed to identify all the people who had been at the meeting, apart from Lord Marbury, who was nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, see couldn't see the apothecary anywhere either, which meant they wouldn't be able to find out what drugs he'd given to Moo. The others were hustled away by the pictsies to await their fate.

Back in the Small Ballroom Nurse Vera had a very concerned look on her face as she sat on the bed, stroking Moo's hair.

"Her temperature is low, her pulse is slow and her heartbeat is erratic," she told Lucy and Katy, "I don't know what that potion maker gave her, but whatever it was, if he'd given her very much more of it she'd be dead. She needs an Igor."

"Doesn't Lord Bothermore have an Igor?" Lucy wondered, "he has a nurse, after all, and an apothecary, and a shyster and…"

"No Igor was prepared to work for him," said Vera.

"What!?" said Katy, in astonishment, "but they'll happily work for tyrants, and mad scientists and vampires…no, offence meant," she said to Lucy.

"None taken," Lucy replied, "I suppose even an Igor has his limits."

"We need to get her to the hospital," said Vera, there was no doubt which hospital she meant, "as quickly as possible."

"Right," said Lucy, taking charge, "Katy, can you ride a horse?"

"Since I was a little girl."

"Good, then go to the stables and pick out a fast one; you're going to take Moo to Ankh-Morpork."

"Ok," Katy agreed, "but what about you?"

"I'm going to have a word with the pictsies to make sure they look after you on the road, then I'm going to 'interview' the people who were at the meeting to see what I can find out. I'll catch you up as soon as I've finished."

"Ok," said Katy.

"Go and pick your horse, I'll be with you as soon as I've had a word with the Wee Free Men."

Katy nodded her agreement and headed for the stables. Behind her she heard Lucy addressing the nearest pictsie:

"Haw you, who's the heid bummer at the minute?"

Lord Bothermore had little liking for, and no appreciation of, horses, but for Katy they were a source of wonder and always had been for as long as she could remember. Half of them were half-mad half of the time and some of them were as thick as giants, though most were at least as bright as the average human and some were as sharp as a sword's edge. But they were all beautiful. And then there was Ronrojo.

Lord Bothermore couldn't ride and kept horses for three reasons: to lend to guests so that they could chase dogs that were intent on tearing a fox to pieces; to race for prize money that he didn't need or even want but, primarily, because it was expected of him. Racing and hunting were the sports of kings, after all. Kings weren't fond of sports that required skill, or dedication, or even effort. But, as with most of the things that he wasn't good at, he knew how to hire people who _were_ good at them. Consequently, he owned the finest stables this side of The Great Outdoors, and she had the pick of everyone in them.

She knew that most people would have gone for a racer and Lord Bothermore owned what most people considered the greatest racer of them all: Flying Wind. This mighty stallion came from the wild herds of the Slaked Plain itself and had never lost a race. She needed speed and if speed had been all she were looking for there would have been no other choice. But it was a long way to Ankh-Morpork, they might encounter many things on the road and the big stallion was skittish, even standing in his stall chewing oats.

No, what she need was a hunter, a jumper, a stayer…someone with brains. Ronrojo was a bay from Hersheba; though he stood only fifteen hands high the stable boys said he could jump anything, had never fallen and would stay until the sun went down. Whenever she looked him in the eye she knew he was more intelligent than she was. She knew that this wasn't true for everyone, but that was because a lot of people weren't bright enough to realise how dim they were. He was the man for.

Once she had indicated that he was her preferred partner for business one of the Nac Mac Feegle took it upon himself to explain the rules to the horse. Shuggie jumped up on Ronrojo's back, ran up his neck until he was standing between his ears then leant over, while holding on to part of his mane, until he was looking down into the horse's eyes.

"Right, listen you," he began, "if anythin' happens tae these wee lassies…"

But the horse was having none of it. He shook his head a few times and then tossed it violently. Shuggie lost his grip, flew up in the air, span over the horses back and, three feet short of the ground, was in the perfect position for Ronrojo to kick him through the stable wall with his back leg. The pictsies was back in seconds, apparently unharmed.

"Right," he said, "fair dos, fair dos but…"

Just then Lucy arrived, carrying Moo.

"It's alright, Shuggie," she said to the pictsie, "he's on our side."

"Right, well," Shuggie conceded.

Lucy then turned to Katy:

"Are you sure that you'll be able to do this and that this is the right horse?"

"Yes," said Katy, answering both questions, but felt she had to go on, "I'm an expert horsewoman and this big guy won't let us down."

She patted him on the neck. He snorted and turned his head to look at them both. Lucy had far more experience of horses than Katy but even she was a bit surprised by the horse's reaction.

"He says he doesn't like that," she explained, "he lets you get away with it because you're a girl, but if any of the stable boys do it he bites them."

"Oh, really," said Katy, disconcerted, "I didn't realise, sorry, sir," she apologised to the horse.

Rose turned up with a skin of water and one of milk, plus saddle-bags full of food. They had a hug; then Katy mounted and Lucy passed Moo up to her.

"I know it's hot outside but she's freezing; you really have to try to keep her warm."

They had tied a couple of pairs of long socks to each leg and she was wearing what felt like three dresses, yet Moo was still shivering.

"I will do and I'll guard her with my life," said Katy.

"I know you will," said Lucy.

Katy was surprised how much the two of them had bonded over this little girl in such a very short time. Lucy was utterly astounded. Katy now urged Ronrojo forward and he immediately began to trot. As soon as he was through the door he began to canter and within a few more seconds he broke into full gallop. Lucy sighed as she watched them go; she really wished she were with them, but for now she had to turn her attention to far less noble creatures.

One by one the unpleasant group of men were ushered into the bare little room she had chosen for the 'interviews'. She was still wearing only the stolen man's shift that made her look like a child so she decided to make a change; not physically but mentally. If Harry Mudd were to have walked into the room he would have seen a tiny, pretty, skinny girl who looked about thirteen. What the 'interviewees' saw was a tall, broad shouldered, fierce looking woman in her fifties. Also, the sweet, little soprano voice that Katy and the pictsies heard had been replaced by the hoarse rasp of a woman who'd been smoking cigars since she was thirteen.

The men, such as they were, were not helpful. None of them seemed to really know what was going on or what their part in it might be. She knew as well, or better, than anyone that the first defence tactic of any wrongdoer was to feign ignorance but, though these men were all clearly habitual liars, she believed them. Apart from being unknowledgeable they were all obviously far too stupid to come up with, or even be consulted about, the plan they were involved in. They all blamed the absent Lord Marbury and, though this was clearly very convenient for them all she, grudgingly, concluded they were probably telling the truth about that too. It had been a long, tedious and useless afternoon but know she was down to the last two: Bothermore and Sax.

Lord Bothermore tried to bluster; it was what he was good at, or at least what he was used to, but then he was usually dealing with someone powerless while he was surrounded by his burly and nasty bodyguards. On his own he was far less confident. He had more or less managed to stare down the scowling, rock-faced woman opposite him, but the two pictsies that were sitting in the corner drinking his best whisky, in scarcely believable quantities, were clearly giving him the billys.

Shuggie had left them behind: "In case ye need tae pull their teeth oot, or somethin' lik that." She had, of course, pulled people's teeth before –usually without their permission- though she had always had to rely on pliers. She was fairly sure that Soapy and Fat Boab would be able to pull them with their bare hands, should they be called upon to do so. Lord Bothermore obviously thought so too, which was why she knew that, possibly for the first time in his life, he was telling the truth. Goodman Sax was the last of the fraidy bunch.

Lucy realised better than anyone that she was in no position to judge others. She considered herself to have been inferior to: shysters, politicians, thieves, thugs, conmen…in fact no better than an assassin. If anything she had been worse even than them. At least assassins took no pleasure in what they did; unless it was a professional pride in a job well done.

Yet even she found something uniquely distasteful about the Guild of Lenders.

Sure the Thieves Guild would steal your money, and that was perfectly legal, but they never claimed they were doing you a favour. Yes, they would burgle your house extort every last penny from you, but they never said it was your fault they were doing it.

The Lender was really no more help than the others had been: only claiming that it was all someone else's fault. And just as with the other's he named Lord Marbury as the circle chief, though he also mentioned Erida, just as Lord Bothermore had. It seemed that this Erida was also part of the conspiracy, though neither of them had met her. Lucy knew that "Erida" was one of the many names of Eris the Goddess of Hatred, but she'd retired centuries ago believing, quite rightly, that people would do all the hard work for her and that she therefore no longer needed to manifest herself. Also, "Erida" didn't appear to be the leader, so it clearly wasn't Eris after all. And then Sax said something weird:

"Beware, He is coming, the Master of Eris is coming."

Now, Lucy had never met Eris. She knew the goddess only by reputation, but that reputation made it quite clear that she was, most definitely, nobody's slave. Well, except…

No. Oh, no! Oh no no no no no no no no. NO!

She was out of the door faster than a tongue after a fly. So fast in fact that she didn't bother to open it, but ran through it instead.

1 Girls she knew fantasised that Sergeant Kubwa would break people like Goodman Sax in half and then feed the remains to his dogs. But then girls she knew spent most of their waking hours, and all of their sleeping, ones fantasising about sergeant Kubwa.

2 Vampires evaluated each new friend on the basis of how many of them they could kill and eat.

3 Perhaps it was because each individual thought of himself as part of something far larger, but a Nac Mac Feegle didn't actually think of himself as being small.

4 The Wee Free Men were actually incapable of fear but Big Malky almost sacred even them.

5 The stern talking-to would have to wait until later.

6 Vera was a proper, Morpork Mercy-trained nurse. Bothermore's other "nurse", Florence –who'd been with him since childhood- put the fear of gods into even Frau Strohdachdeckerin.


End file.
